Hogwarts' Secrets
by vermilionRED
Summary: A collection of femslash lemon vignettes, written in 2nd person and drabble form. Centered around Hogwarts, but also extends slightly beyond. Not for the timid.
1. Black and Violet

Author's Note: Rated R  
  
=^^= LA LI HOOOOO!!! It's December 25 (Yes, Christmas), and I'm stuck here at home until 6. So here's the first installment of a series of short little vignettes I'm putting out. All the vignettes are Harry Potter. =^^= Anyhoo...rated R for sexual content (uh...that's all this is, really) and mild language. Enjoy.  
~A-chan~  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way, shape, form, colour, flavour, scent, degree, extent or luminosity resemble or claim to resemble J.K Rowling, therefore I claim no ownership to Harry Potter. (Poor Rowling-san would probably have a seizure if she knew what I did to her poor babies in my spare time. ^^;;;) xP So don't sue me. Or I'll throw uncooked globs of tofu at you.  
  
Plot: Plot? What plot? (PWP)  
  
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*Black and Violet*  
  
Pansy Parkinson has always loved her nails, she loved them as a child, and she loves them now. She's always loved caring for them, keeping them pretty and shiny. When you first saw her in your first year, they were long and clean and French manicured, and for a while, they were just her natural colour. But she began to paint them, a different colour, a different style every week. She had such perfect nails, and such lovely hands (only God knows how intently you watch her hands).  
  
It's been five years now, since you first saw her and her perfect nails, and you've come to notice that she quite likes her lips as well. They're always so soft and shiny, never chapped and cracked like yours often are. She's always got lipgloss or lipstick of some shade on. Except, you've noticed, she never wears bright red, which upsets you just a mite, seeing as how you personally think it'd look good on her. You overheard her once telling her friends she would never wear bright red lipstick, because it was her mother's colour and she hated her mother because she was a shameless slut. That was why Pansy wore violet lipstick, because her mother hated it, and she delighted in that hate.  
  
She was lovely, Pansy, not ugly and pug-nosed like people say behind her back in sad attempts to hurt her feelings ("As if she has any," you think). Her silver-green eyes were bordered thickly by black eyeliner and her eyelids were covered with black-violet dust. It was always black. Everything on her was black (except that gorgeous, silky platinum hair of hers), like the wet, warm cavern that was her venom-filled mouth; like her long, long nails that scratched at your back as she moaned and looked you wickedly in the eye; like the poison that laced her voice when she growled at you and threatened to kill you if you stopped. If it wasn't black, it was violet, like the violet lipstick marks she left on your collar one afternoon after she cornered you in an empty classroom in the dungeons, the ones that Lavender and Parvati pestered you about until you threatened to hex them; like the bruises she left on your neck and thighs and wrists because she squeezed and bit so very hard (but it felt so very good, and you never complained).  
  
"It's not love," you remind yourself, "it's just sex. She's just using you..."  
  
This you say to yourself, you recite to yourself like some prayer or mantra as she pushes you against the headboard of her Slytherin bed covered in Slytherin sheets in the Slytherin dorms (never thought you'd find yourself in here, did you? And yet here you are. Again.) and grabs the front of your blouse, yanking and sending little white buttons flying in every which direction.  
  
"Not love," you whimper as she kisses you demandingly, biting and bruising your lips and tangling her fingers in your brown hair.  
  
"Not love," you think again as her hand disappears under your skirt; "Not love" when fireworks explode before your eyes as her fingers find their target; "Not love" as you gasp and moan and scream her name as she laughs at you and tells you how pitiful you are as she sucks her fingers clean.  
  
When she's done with you, you just lay there in her bed, damning yourself because of your weakness. Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, strong, and look at you, look at how pitiful you are (you were begging her, you were whimpering...pleading, even!)...and something in you snaps and you growl (so beastly, like the vicious, mindless animal you really are), throwing her against the headboard almost violently and telling her that you weren't quite finished with her yet.  
  
You find something oddly entrancing about how the eyeliner in the corners of her eyes runs as she squeezes her eyes shut as she digs her black nails into your back; you find it lovely how her violet lips open and close and whisper your name and the name of a God that you prayed would someday forgive her her many sins and yours ("OhGodohGodohGodohGOD!") like a chant, a novena. When you're both sore and swollen and sweaty and tired and neither of you can come anymore, she holds you from behind, coiling her serpentine body around you, burying her face in your untamable brown mane. Her forked tongue darts out to lick your ear as she hisses, "I hate you, Granger" and you smile and kiss her and tell her you hate her too. Enemies fuck nowawadays anyway. Harry and Draco do it. Why should you have any reason not to?  
  
*FIN*  
  
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Ta-daaa!!! The fruit of my boredom, na no da. Is it bad? o.O;; Yes, I am a flaming pervert, na no da. I know this. I am proud, na no da. =^^= Review, onegai? For my late-ish Christmas present? Review, na no da! (Na no da= Japanese nonsense words. Kind of like "lalala".) Or I'll hit you with my Kumagoro BEAM, na no da! (Kumagoro= Sakuma Ryuichi's bunny plushie hat he carries everywhere and on one occasion lends to Shindou Shuichi.) =^^= ::has been watching entirely too much more Gravitation than is healthy:: =^^= Ja ne!!!::skips off:: 


	2. Taste

Author's Note: Rated R  
LA LI HOOOO!!!!!! December 26th, and I -FINALLY- finished writing this stupid short story I had in my blue notebook that I started in Spanish class (again, I did it in Spanish. It's always Spanish. Spanish is such a boring class, though...). The second installment in my perverted little series. Yaaai. ^^;;; Enjoy. ^^  
~A-chan~  
  
DISCLAIMER:  
It's 2:30 in the morning, and I still don't own Harry Potter. I'm still not J.K. Rowling. So don't sue me, or I'll beat you with a giant, frozen fish, whether it be Spot or Tilapia or just a random box of flash- frozen Tiger shrimp. Don't screw with Asians, man. We got lots of frozen seafood to beat you with. ^^ And as my beautiful and wonderful beta-reader told me, Blaise is a male name. Buuut...I'm too lazy to go back through the HP books and see if Blaise Zabini is male or female. I don't think Rowling- san ever specifies, so my Blaise is a girl. So nyaaah. =^^=  
  
Plot: ...Plot? What plot? (PWP) =+=+=+=+=  
  
*Taste*  
  
"This whole school is messed up," you thought yesterday when you reapplied your dark red lipstick, buttoned up your blouse, and doused yourself with perfume to rid yourself of the smell of sex.  
  
The Gryffindors were mostly drunkards (it works, doesn't it? Drunks are surprisingly strong and brave, after all), the Hufflepuffs ran a private harem (they were only loyal to customers, but they truly did work hard to please them, for a price), the Slytherins were thieves (not only of material things, mind you. Slytherins weren't above robbing people of their virginity) and all their boys were the flamingest gays you'd ever seen (Draco Malfoy's always seemed awfully peculiar to you, hasn't he?) and the Slytherin girls fucked anything that had something vaguely resembling a solid shape, and the Ravenclaw girls were all depressed lesbians who'd screw any willing female (you of all people would know the truth in that statement) while the boys were all bisexual crackpots.  
  
"The Ministry of Magic would die if they knew what kind of school Dumbledore's been running," you gasp between moans as Blaise Zabini presses her lips (she's been wearing Pansy's purple lipstick again, you notice) to your throat, sucking hard to leave a dark red mark on your dark brown skin.  
  
She only laughs, hooking her arms under your thighs and hoisting you up to sit on a desk. She kneels between your thighs, pulling off your underwear and flinging it across the empty Arithmancy classroom (you honestly wouldn't have minded if the new professor walked in and joined. She was quite pretty) and says, "Just like a Ravenclaw. You think. Too much. Even during sex!" and she leans forward, and you know where that snake-like tongue will go (you needn't have even used your infinite Ravenclaw wisdom to determine that) but you gasp and shiver uncontrollably anyway because every time the sensation overwhelms you, despite how many times she's done it before.  
  
You watch in wonder, realising for the first time just how cadaverously white Blaise's skin really is as you see her hands pulling your knees apart and her cheek resting on your thigh. And then her hand moves and you feel her fingers and your stomach muscles tense (squeezesqueezesqueezeSQUEEZE until you feel like you might vomit or suffocate) and you try hard not to fall backwards. You want to tangle your hands in her black, black hair (but they're the only things keeping you up and if you let go, then surely you'd fall) and look into her green eyes (but she'd laugh and tell you to quit staring), you always want to, but you never do. All you are is a Ravenclaw, all you are is clever. It's your sister who's the Gryffindor, the brave one. She'd have the audacity (that you lack) to tell the girl who so enjoyed torturing her that she thinks she fell in love with said tormenter somewhere down the line.  
  
With a final lick and a final shudder, you gasp, muscles convulsing and falling backwards onto your elbows. And then you reciprocate, you return the favour with such fervor and enthusiasm that you don't even notice when she's screaming Pansy's name and not yours (Pansy did everyone, the slut. You'd even heard of her current rumoured affair with Hermione Granger) but when she finally comes, you rest your head against her thigh and wonder what reduced you to a slut, what possessed you to start fucking with a Slytherin (Blaise Zabini, of all people) after another Slytherin dumped you (Pansy was so cruel about it, too), and you realise in shock that you don't even remember anymore.  
  
You feel Blaise slythering up your body and you turn your dark eyes to look at her. Pansy's purple lipstick is smeared across her lips, and you remember how wonderful you used to think Pansy looked like that. She leans up to kiss you, driving her tongue deep into your mouth, pressing against you and moaning. You both stand, silently acknowledging your mutual satiety. You button your blouse and reapply your lipstick as she runs her hands through her hair. She walks out, glancing back over her shoulder at you to ask, "Tomorrow?" to which you reply with a nod.  
  
You walk back to the Ravenclaw tower, noting that it's only 6 PM and it's still light outside (it's a Friday, nearly everyone is either running around outside or meandering around the school); you hope there won't be many people in the dorms. You open the door to your dorm, closing it behind you with a sigh, paying no mind to the Asian girl (she was probably just lonely again) sitting on your bed. Cho stands and walks toward you, cupping your cheek and kissing you (was that tenderness? Sentiment?), not even flinching when she says, "Padma, you taste like sex."  
  
You laugh, wrapping your arms around her waist and biting her neck and saying, "I always do, Cho."  
  
*FIN*  
  
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I heart underdeveloped characters, na no da. =^^= I hope that wasn't too terrible. Anyway, review, or I'll hit you with my Kumagoro BEAM, na no da! ::catches sneaky reader who tries to sneak off without reviewing. Chucks Kumagoro violently at reader's head:: Kumagoro BEAM!!!!! ::coughcough:: ^^;; Gomen ne, na no da. Ja ne... ::scuttles off:: 


	3. Let You Down

Author's Note: Rated R  
Hihi. =^^= It's 12:30, and just a few minutes ago, I finished typing up the rough draft of my Biology homework. And I was working on "The Way You Make Me Feel", but then I decided I wanted to do this. I'm sorry it's taking me so long to update all my stuff. I've just been having...inspiration issues recently. I've been feeling kind of down about...well, nearly everything. But you know what? That is completely irrelevant. It doesn't matter and no one cares because this is getting into my personal life, and no one wants to hear about that because, honestly, why would you care? You shouldn't have to worry about my personal life and my problems, only about what I produce in work. u_u;; Anyway. Expect songfic-ish vignettes in this series. I'll probably end up using "I Hate Everything About You" and "Just Like You" as well, both of which are by Three Days Grace. Also, Ran Anxiang gave me a fabulous idea for a better name for this series. How does "Hogwarts: School of Perversion and Debauchery" sound? What do you think, Ran? Feedback on title, please. =^^=;; Anyway. Enjoy.  
  
Disclaimer:  
This is getting really old. You should have figured it out by now. I own nothing, not the people, not the book series. I just own the plot. I don't own the song "Let You Down", Three Days Grace does. You should go buy their cd. Or burn it or something. For Three Days Grace is greatness. I don't own anything, so don't sue me. Or fear my ass. Anyone who steals my ideas will be hunted down and promptly beaten to death by this creepy little plastic Happy Meal toy from that Haunted Mansion movie. I will beat you with it and laugh as it sings something about three ghosts coming out to socialise or whatnot. Yes. I am sick and twisted. I don't care anymore.  
  
Warnings:  
Incest, non-consentual sex, heterosexual implications, hurt, special ending. In this installment, I...do horrible things to a character that I personally hate. I find this character to be relatively useless and pointless. As well as extremely unattractive. CHARACTER DEATH sodon'tsuemetheend.  
  
~A-chan  
  
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"LET YOU DOWN"  
  
[Trust me.]  
  
Poor child. She was so tender and naive and frightened. But so pulled to you that you could not help but reach out to her grasping hand and take it and hold it against your chest and look her in the eyes and tell her, "Trust me." (But it was a lie. You could not be trusted. She should have known. Silly, silly girl. Already Lavender owed you 3 sickles, having bet those 3 sickles that the girl would never come to you for..."love". Pansy Parkinson had bet 5.)  
  
[There's no need to fear.]  
  
She was so afraid. Terrified of it all: the pain, ("What if it hurts? I don't like pain. The very first time, it hurt so badly," she'd whimpered, pushing your hand away. You'd frowned. "Of course it hurt. Your first time was with Fred and George. And it was anal," you'd said, leaning in closer for a kiss. You would get what you were after. You always did.), what if her Mum found out ("She'd hex me for a million lifetimes!"), what if anyone found out ("Sweet Merlin, think of what this could do to my reputation!"). Such a self-centered girl, really. Hard to believe that anyone so vapid would be so drawn to you. She held herself in such high-esteem, plain though she was. She was a bit of an eyesore, really. She coloured so horribly when embarassed, turning the sort of violet that a thumb would turn after being smashed with something like a Bludger. But she held herself above others, above the entire school, proclaiming proudly that she alone would fight off the carnal desires that the rest of the student body willingly submitted and succumbed to.  
  
"I have more dignity than that. I'll be better than the whole lot of you, sleeping around like you do."  
  
That was what she said. You used to be just like her, thinking you were far too dignified to lower yourself to the dismal levels to which everyone else flocked. You'd not wanted to conform. But in the end, tired of being left out and overshadowed, you'd given in. She came crawling into your bed not even a week later begging for release ("Please help me. Please. I can't take it. It's all I hear about. It's just sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. Please...show me."). She'd grabbed your hand, pressing kisses along your palm and you'd told her to trust you.  
  
[Everyone's here, Watiting for you to finally be one of us.]  
  
It was apparent that her resolve had shattered. Her resistance was no more. It disintegrated further when your lips brushed her neck and she'd moaned, arching up into you.  
  
"You're no different from the others," you hissed, "no different at all. Stupid little girl, thinking you were so much better than us. You're just the same."  
  
She reached up, clawing at your back through the fabric of your nightclothes.  
  
"Please," she begged, "be gentle."  
  
[Come down. You may be full of fear, But you'll be safe here]  
  
"There's no such thing," you growled into the concave of her ear before you pressed your thigh roughly into her virgin mound, hearing her breath hitch in her throat.  
  
Her hair was thick and frizzy and curly, and it had a tendency to want to crawl up your face and smother you as you pressed down against her, avoiding her lips. There was nothing for you, not there in the bed with the slowly deflowering child underneath you whimpering and gasping.  
  
"I won't be gentle," you say, roughly yanking her paisley pajama top from her thin, frail-looking, freckled body and tearing her panties from her, "but I won't hurt you." (Keep those fingers crossed behind your back, but don't let her see. She may run away if she knew you were lying.)  
  
[When you finally trust me, Finally believe in me--]  
  
She nodded slowly, swallowing hard.  
  
"I-I trust you," she whispered, wrapping her arms around your shoulders.  
  
[I will let you down. I'll let you down. When you finally trust me, Finally believe in me.]  
  
You felt a malicious smile cross your lips, and you felt so deliciously corrupt that you couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"Trust is overrated," you purred before parting her nether lips and driving your fingers in, disregarding her sharp, penetrating scream.  
  
Her muscles clenched and your fingers were frozen in place, a mere atom's breadth from the hymen. You snarled, tensing your arm muscles but not pushing forward. You curled the fingers of your free hand ino her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat as she let out a choked sob.  
  
"This is what you asked for. This is what you wanted. You wanted to be just like everyone else. Just like I did. I will unmake you in the very same way I was unmade," you chuckled in her ear, licking away those hot tears.  
  
You shoved forward, ignoring her scream, ignoring the tiny smidgen of hot, sticky blood oozing over your hand. You pumped your hand in and out of her, and after a short while she relaxed her muscles. After a while, she began to move to meet your hand, she began to moan. (Stupid child. Even you couldn't resist it. What had made her think she could have?) When she finally came, she moaned deep in her throat, arching her back, and you could feel her individual ribs pressing into your chest.  
  
[Trust me.]  
  
You'd wiped your hand on her nightshirt and told her to get out before she got caught. She'd protested at first, and you all but threw her out. You stuck your head out the door of your private bedroom (privileged, you were) and asked her if she trusted you that it was for her own good. She bit back her tears, nodded yes, and hobbled off to her room. She was so much like you when you first discovered the marvels of sex that you smiled and even laughed, closing your door on her retreating back.  
  
[I'll be here when you need me. You'll be safe here.]  
  
She came to you the next morning at your spot at the breakfast table and sat down, smiling shyly. She'd leaned against your shoulder and said good morning with a giggle. You nodded stiffly in her general direction and continued on talking to Ron.  
  
[And when you finally trust me, Finally believe in me--]  
  
She tugged on your sleeve, getting up on her knees on the bench and whispering the question of whether or not you were "going steady" with her now in your ear. You nearly choked on your toast. You pounded yourself on the chest and swallowed gulp after gulp of water. You turned to her and laughed sardonically.  
  
"You're kidding, right?" you'd laughed.  
  
She blinked, looking hurt, wondering what was so funny.  
  
[I will let you down. When you finally trust me, Finally believe in me.]  
  
"It was just a one-night thing. Actually, more like a bet I had going on between Lavender, Pansy, and myself," you explained.  
  
Those doe brown eyes went wide and tears filled them immediately. You laughed some more, and laughed even harder when Pansy sauntered over from the door, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed, and shirt partially unbuttoned and draped herself about your shoulders. Her eyes darted over to the slightly traumatized-looking little girl beside you.  
  
"Aw, damn. Tell me you didn't," she groaned.  
  
"Oh, but I did," you crowed.  
  
Pansy sighed, digging in her pocket and pulling out five sickles and placing them in your breast pocket.  
  
"See, I was right. I'm not the only bitch in this...thing," she giggled, turning and walking backwards and blowing you a kiss, "Fuck ya later, lover."  
  
You'd proceeded to explain to her that Pansy and Lavender had bet that the sweet, innocent little girl of Gryffindor would forever be a virgin. And even if she did lose her virginity, she most certainly would never tell you (dignified, honorable, noble, intelligent Prefect you are) because she saw you as too pristinely pure to ever be the slut you truly were, much less would she approach you and ask you to take it. But she had. And you did. You never batted an eye as she burst into tears, bawling loudly about how she thought you loved her. You didn't blink once as she staggered to her feet and nearly bowled the doors of the Great Hall down in her rush to get away from you. She slammed into Harry on the way out, who just shook his head and walked over to you, sitting down across from you and posing the question, "Christ, Hermione. What'd you do to -her-?"  
  
You only shrugged, and Ron laughed, clapping Harry on the back and saying, "Och. No worries 'bout it, mate. Stupid little shit wanted to know all about sex, so 'Mione just taught her. She asked for it, though. Got what she deserved. Should she have just kept her mouth shut, she'd never've gotten hurt. But, hell, she's never been able to shut her trap."  
  
[Never want to come down.]  
  
They found her later, hanging from the Astronomy Tower by her necktie. But oddly enough, no one really seemed to care. It was as if she'd been erased from everyone's memory. No one cried at the funeral except her Mum and Dad, and when you all went back to Hogwarts, it was as if nothing at all had happened. No one really noticed that vapid, flaming redhead, naive Ginny Weasley was dead. All in all, she was just another brick in the wall. [1]  
  
FIN  
  
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Author's End Note:  
Yes. I hate Ginny Weasley. So I killed her. I hate all those Ginny/Hermione fics. They creep me out. Especially the fluffy ones. So here's my own rendition of a Herm/Gin. Eat your heart out, Herm/Gin- shippers. Anyway. I hope that didn't send -all- my readers scuttling off to hide under a blankey. Like I said, I've been in a pretty shetty mood, so I write pretty shetty stuff. Erm. I promise I'll try not to kill anymore people in the following chapters. Scouts' honour. ...Unless I really hate the character. ^^;; Anyhoo. Ja ne!  
  
Footnotes: [1] "Brick in the Wall" --Pink Floyd  
-I don't own this, either. 


	4. Defiantly

**Author's Note: **This chapter and the following two are 100-word drabbles I did for an LJ community. And, just so you know, Blackcest is definitely one of my guilty pleasures.

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**Defiantly**

"Bella, no," Narcissa mewled, writhing beneath her sister's hands.

Bellatrix pressed her mouth to the tender flesh of Narcissa's neck and Narcissa's whimpers reached a brand new octave. She reached down, gathering the blonde's frilly skirts in one hand and bunching them up around her waist. She slithered down her sister's body, lapping at her thighs with her long tongue.

"Hush, Cissy," she hissed, "Haven't you missed me?"

"Yes! But Lucius'll be home any second and-"

Bellatrix smiled into her sister's flesh, grasping Narcissa's legs and tugging them over her own shoulders. She pulled out her wand.

"Let him see."

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-_**fin**_


	5. Fancy Vocabulary

**Author's Note:** 100 word drabble.

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**Fancy Vocabulary **

She sees her every day, trolling the hallways with Weasel and Pity-Me Potty. Pansy wants to know what she tastes like beneath all her cleverness and her fancy vocabulary. She knows Granger's caught her staring; she knows because she caught Granger eyeballing her the same way during Herbology. She corners Hermione after class and neither of them says a word as Pansy shoves her against Greenhouse3. She presses her face to Granger's neck, breathing hard as she fucks her savagely. Her breath condenses against Hermione's skin and she licks it away her Hermione stutters. So much for her fancy vocabulary.

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**_-fin_**


	6. Christmas

**Author's Note:** 100 word drabble. I guess you could consider this an early Christmas present of sorts? Enjoy. :3  
-Andrea

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**Christmas**

Hermione's wrists, chafed to a merrily bright red beneath the delicate green wraps of a certain Slytherin school tie, reminded Pansy of Christmas. Pansy tugs at the pink buttoned sweater Hermione wears over her uniform.

"You're not particularly fond of this…thing, are you, Granger?" she asks, fingers dancing over the buttons like a sadistic ballerina.

"Hate it," Hermione moans. It was her favourite sweater.

Pansy tears at it, sending buttons flying in every which direction. She pounces on Hermione, and the Gryffindor's moans are drowned in Pansy's mouth.

"Happy Christmas, Mudblood," Pansy whispers harshly.

"It's May, Pansy."

Pansy just laughs.

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**-fin**


End file.
